epiphany

Here, war is not heard in gunshots, but in exhaustion. Not in the thunder of heroism, but in a quiet exhalation when there are no words left. Everything seems to freeze in the air between inhalation and exhalation - between “hold on” and “goodbye.” In this sound - the pulse of the operating lamp, footsteps on the sand, plastic through which you can still feel someone else's hand.

Somewhere between the twentieth minute of sleep and the twentieth hour of pain, a strange enlightenment arises - as if the world decides for a second to explain why all this is happening. But it doesn't have time. And all that remains is this fragile rhythm of breathing - as proof that the person is still alive.